


Everything Yields

by Problematic_Wesker_Stans



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Body Paint, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Multi, Rape, Ritualistic Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Slavery, Sounding, Violence, forced drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Problematic_Wesker_Stans/pseuds/Problematic_Wesker_Stans
Summary: After his ambush in Edonia, Captain Chris Redfield finds himself a coveted prisoner in the underground world of bioweapon slavery.  Plaything to the wealthiest patrons and gamblers on earth, he is subjected to unspeakable acts of depravity and violence.  But he’s not alone.





	1. The Dog and the Worm

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sex slave story that we wanted to read and finally just wrote ourselves. There won't be any serious body horror here - plenty of other authors have that genre covered. 
> 
> However, if you're into graphic depictions of humiliating acts, forced intimacy, and heartbreak that shakes the very foundations of the characters, we invite you to read on.
> 
> Special thanks to lionofwrath for being the first brave soul to explore an enslaved Albert Wesker. You inspired us, and we hope you enjoy this.

* * *

_Final day of captivity_

* * *

The gun shook in his hand, the tremor running up the length of his arm. His eyes seemed enormous, so much like amber in the dying sun. Chris could see they were watery. He took a step.

"Don't come any closer." Wesker pulled the hammer back.

"We're free." Chris's voice was strained and rasping. He didn't understand, couldn't understand why...

"We are." Wesker nodded solemnly.

"I got you out," Chris said, his eyes darting from the gun to Wesker's face.

"You did." Wesker swallowed. His cheek twitched. His mouth trembled and then cracked into a horrible, wavering smile. "And I will be _forever_ grateful," he said cruelly.

They stared at each other.

"What are you doing?" Chris whispered.

Wesker's nostrils flared. He blinked hard. Something flickered over his vicious features - pain, perhaps, or melancholy. Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant. "I am surviving… at all costs," he said slowly.

"But… I left with you." Chris searched his eyes for something to hold on to, for anything he might grasp. But the memories, the man Wesker had been for all of those months, slipped through his fingers like fine, white sand.

"You were my hostage."

"I wasn't," Chris said, fighting still. "I was never your hostage."

Wesker's jaw tightened. "You were a means to an end."

"That's bullshit. You know that's not-"

"You were disgusting."

"Stop."

Wesker laughed - a short, mocking bark. His eyes narrowed, and he sneered in repulsion. "You were just a _tool_. A crude, ugly tool."

"You can't take what happened back. You can't any of it back."

"I have _always_ hated you." Wesker paused, as if to gather something, perhaps courage. "I hate you now, more than ever before."

Chris took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, you don't."

"What did I tell you, when you were first a _slave_?"

Chris flinched at the word.

"I told you I would do _anything_ to stay alive. I would fight for my enemies… I would prostrate myself before them. I would feign pleasure, and suffer theirs. I would bleed for them and _beg_ for their mercy. So long as it _kept_… _me_… _alive_." He ground out between clenched teeth, his voice thin with sorrow. His pulse jumped in his pale throat. "Alive… so that I might have the opportunity to destroy them."

He raised the gun until it was trained on Chris's face.

"Wesker…don't do this."

"You are my enemy, Chris. You are no longer useful to me... and you know how this ends."

* * *

_2 months, 5 days in captivity_

* * *

"You'll be the jackal," she said, tossing the masques down before them. "And _you_... will be the cat."

A carefully sculpted canine face clattered to the floor before Chris. He looked down at it, briefly. It was black and gold, with heavy winged liner around the cut-out eyes. It was like something painted on the wall of an ancient Egyptian tomb.

He dared a glance at Wesker, kneeling next to him in the same pose of perfect submission.

_On your knees. Hands on thighs. Palms up._ It had been one of the first things they'd taught him...and enforced. Painfully.

The golden mask of a panther stared up at Wesker. Chris saw his hateful, fiery gaze drop and then return to the pair of towering ruby heels, saw the flicker of murderous rage in his serpentine eyes. He knelt though, still and serene; his veneer of obedience was thin, but flawless. Chris envied the ease with which he pretended to be _well-trained_.

Carla Radames was perched gingerly on the bottom bunk bed, afraid to let anything in the cell actually _touch_ her. It was damp and dark where Chris and Wesker were kept, with a single low, yellow light swaying overhead any time one of the armed escorts bumped it.

The bedframe creaked beneath her as she looked at them through narrowed eyes, twisting a glittering ring round and round her middle finger.

"I have some special orders for you tonight." She reached behind herself and dragged a bag across the bed. Chris had been fixated on it since she'd walked in.

There was _always_ a bag when Carla visited.

Sometimes, it was a canvas weapons bag, or a duffle bag full of body armor, or a heavy leather roll of gleaming butcher knives.

Today, it was a black grocery bag. The kind of bag someone left a porn store with, head down and hood up, neon tube lights reflecting off the hood of their car in the middle of another desperate, lonely night.

Chris had learned, very early on in his servitude, that there were only two possible events for which he and Wesker were the entertainment: _fighting_ or _fucking_. A flipped coin spinning in the air, the landing entirely dependent on the host's refined tastes.

Here, at least - wherever _here_ was - there was no blood staining the stone foundation. The hot water tap actually worked. There were real mattresses on the bunk beds, and the food had been more than just _edible_.

Creature comforts were only extended to certain types of pets. Not usually the type a host wanted to see bloody, broken, and half-dead.

As far as he could tell, they were in the cellar of what had to be a privately owned castle - he'd only gotten a glance at the property as the helicopter landed, just before they'd put the blackout over his head. But judging by the reinforced bars, the added enclave with the real toilet and the working shower… the owner of the castle was probably _accommodating _their sort often.

The black grocery bag rustled. Chris knew there weren't any weapons for them tonight; he'd ruled out combat the second Carla had produced the Egyptian masques.

And if fighting wasn't on the itinerary... then there would be _fucking_. The question now was _who_… or worse... _what_.

"Gold body paint," Carla said with no inflection, rifling through the items. A jar dropped to the floor and rolled, bumping against Chris's knee.

"Shampoo…soap…an enema, for the worm…Vaseline… toothbrush..." Chris felt the vibrations as the items fell from Carla's elegantly manicured hands. Wesker would be the victim of someone's pleasure tonight; he felt a guilty sort of relief.

"A razor," she continued. "You've both been very well-behaved lately, so please… no clever incidents. No injuries. The blades will be accounted for, yes?"

Chris heard Wesker exhale.

And then he heard the soft, mocking _hum_ in the back of Carla's throat. Chris finally, warily looked up.

Carla's gaze was locked on _him_ \- her quietly insubordinate golden worm. Her hair, thick and straight, was cut in a sharp bob, and framed her doll face like a curtain of black silk. Her shining cherry lips were tilted to a tight, pinched smile - the same villainous smile Wesker himself used to employ.

Before he was a slave.

"Am I boring you, worm?" she asked.

A beat passed. Long and torturous and silent.

Chris turned to look at Wesker. Behind them, he heard the guards who had escorted Carla into the cell - the unsettling rustle of their uniforms, the clicking of ARs being readied in unison.

"I asked you a question," Carla said again, her tone deceptively light.

_Answer her. _Chris held his own breath until his lungs burned with it. He pressed his knuckles into his thighs, his hands _itching_ to ball into fists. _Fucking answer her..._

But Wesker only glared into Carla's lovely visage… wordlessly defiant. His dangerous eyes flashed in the dim light, his muscles tensed, his jaw rigid. Carla stared back into him, cold and unmoved by his empty posturing.

Theirs was always the meeting of two black holes.

"No," Chris finally said, his voice dry and cracking. "He's only tired."

Carla looked at Chris then, cocking her head.

"He's only tired, _Mistress_," Chris corrected quickly. His eyes dropped back to the stone floor.

"Well, imagine that. The sweet little _dog _is sticking up for the worm." He heard the sickening smirk in Carla's voice. He heard her rise from the bed, and heard her heels echo in the cell as she stepped closer to where they knelt. "Once upon a time, he tried to kill you, didn't he? Not so long ago, was it?"

Chris felt a muscle in his neck spasm. He frowned at the cold stone, willing himself not to speak, not to move so much as a finger. To stay still and swallow the words and not think about them, _don't think, don't speak, don't-_

"It's really very touching that you've worked it out. Your little partnership has been so _lucrative_," Carla continued in the wake of Chris's silence. "My very own dynamic duo."

From the corner of his eye, Chris saw Wesker stiffen, his mouth drawing into that thin, unreadable line. Chris held his breath.

_Don't..._

Carla gestured towards him. "Head back, worm."

After a terrifying game of psychological chicken, Wesker sighed, and obeyed. His jaw clenched, the cruel cut of it outlined in the low light. One of the guards, in full riot gear, pushed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

"You're always surly when your dose is about to run out, aren't you?" Carla asked, cooing. She reached into the pocket of her sleek jacket, pulling out the nasal inhaler she used on him every day. In quick, precise succession, she pumped each of his nostrils twice.

Wesker winced, screwing his eyes shut and gagging. He tried to hang his head, but the guard wrenched it back by a painful fist of his hair.

"Don't you dare," Carla said, her voice a low threat.

Wesker's teeth gnashed. He looked up, his pupils blown out wide, his eyes wild with shock. "What did you put in that?" He sputtered, gasping. A thick string of saliva hung from his chin. His bare chest heaved with frantic, uneven breaths.

Carla looked down at him. "Just your P30, for compliance, and a little something extra to ensure..." she waved a gloved hand, nonchalant. "_Participation_, I suppose."

Chris swallowed. _PT-141_. Carla had used it on him too, in the beginning. Liberally. _Shit. Wesker was going to be useless tonight._

"Do you know what that could do to me, you stupid _bitch_? Do you understand the effects of a vasodilator in my condition?" Wesker roared, lunging forward. Before Chris could react, every weapon in the cell was trained on Wesker's head. The closest guard had kicked Wesker to the ground, a booted foot crushing his chest until he grunted. The muzzle of the AR dug cruelly into his model-sharp cheek, pinning his pretty head to the stone.

At any other time in his life, he would have found immense pleasure in watching a few guys kick the ever-loving shit out of Albert Wesker, and then wipe the floor with his smug, dead face. But now… when he _needed_ him to stay alive and intact, it wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all.

"Oh, I understand exactly what _this_ vasodilator will do to you," Carla began, calm and sweet. Her dark empty gaze darted down to his crotch, and then back up to his impotently furious eyes. "And I understand that this benefactor, this audience… wants a _true_ performance, and they're willing to pay. They want something otherworldly, a _religious experience_. And I know the dog is good for it. He always looks so pleasantly… _terrorized_ by the games, but you, worm - you haven't been so enthusiastic lately, have you?"

_God, the two of them were almost the same - Wesker and his sequel, Carla. Whine, lecture, brag, repeat. Shut the fuck up… shutupshutupshutup. _Chris stared at the handgun in the guard's side holster as Carla monologued them to death. He calculated the risk, running through a thousand scenarios at once. It was a Five-seveN, twenty-plus-one rounds, a fast Belgian semi-automatic with armor-piercing capability. In a previous life, he had owned one. It was an alright kind of gun, if not a little clumsy.

He sure could kill a few assholes with it, though.

Wesker laughed, a terrible, maniacal sound. "Why not let me have a go at your dried-up cunt, Carla… I'll show you my _enthusiasm_."

The guard ground his heel into Wesker's sternum, forcing the air from his lungs. The muzzle of the AR moved to the center of his forehead.

Chris's heart raced. The guard's gun was even closer than before - only two feet away. So very close, he could almost feel the weight of it in his palm. There were four men behind him, not including the one with the Five-seveN. If he were in a video game, a simulation, he'd distract them by blowing a couple of holes in closest guard's exposed throat, and in the ensuing chaos, he'd take them rest out in about 4 seconds, start to finish.

And then he'd deal with Wesker. And the bitch. Both of them. Somehow. Some way.

In _this_ reality though, the true reality... his gray brains would paint the floor before he'd even yanked the gun from its holster.

"It's alright," Carla soothed the guard, breaking through Chris's thoughts. "He's just an animal, after all." She touched the guard's shoulder. "Sit him up."

Wesker was righted roughly, dragged across the stone to his bloody knees. The guard stepped away. Chris watched the red patches of Wesker's scraped flesh knit back together until his skin was unblemished alabaster once more. He took a deep breath through his nose, ran his hand through his hair and shook his head as if to clear it.

Chris _almost_ smiled. _Still such an arrogant prick. The parts of yourself you choose to hold onto..._

Wesker's open palms returned to rest against this thighs. He fixed his unblinking glare on the wall, looking entirely as if none of _that_ had just happened.

"Your orders, right now, are as follows: the dog will make sure the worm is prepared, as he won't be in any condition to prepare himself in about -" she glanced at her dainty golden watch. "Fifteen minutes."

Wesker stifled a rumbling growl.

Carla exited the cell gracefully, her men following close behind. "Both of you in the body paint. Everywhere, yes? I'll be back to inspect." A slick smile was plastered on her lacquered red lips.

The cell door swung shut and five separate locking mechanisms clinked into place.

* * *


	2. Celestial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a labor of love. It spent a very long time half in our imaginations, and half on the page. Now that it's finally come together, we both agree that it is one of the most delicious things we've ever written. Special thanks to our very good friend, @gorgonapologist.
> 
> Please enjoy, and comment. ;)
> 
> slt and charmsfly

_Preparation_ had a very specific definition when Carla used it.

It meant one of them was getting fucked - usually by some illustrious secret _patron_, more rarely by another slave. _One time, it had been a_… Chris stopped. He couldn't afford to think about it, to remember it. He couldn't. Not now. Not ever.

Cellophane crinkled. Wesker sighed dejectedly.

Most of the time, Chris was preparing himself, only helping to shave whatever Wesker couldn't reach. Wesker was expected to be hairless and smooth to the touch - it made sense, in a sick way, because that's what everyone imagined he'd be. It was how Chris remembered him, at least. Tall, sleek, graceful… like a ballet dancer.

The truth was, Wesker was only _tall._ Months of a restricted diet had definitely made him appear slender; the bumps of his spine showing when he sat _just so_, his abdominal muscles defined like so many hard ridges beneath his skin. They made sure he was kept a little underfed, a little dehydrated. And he wasn't naturally depilated at all; his chest, his back, his legs, his arms, all covered in soft, thin blond hair that had to be stripped from his body before every _intimate _event.

Chris, on the other hand, was expected to be his opposite in every way - heavily muscled, ungroomed, and exceptionally _natural_. Rewarded when he was cruel, punished when he showed mercy. He was the _savage_ to Wesker's _urbane._

Chris sat on the lower bunk, rubbing his face. He listened to Wesker struggle with the box.

The first effects would be setting in now. Like some torturous combination of viagra, spanish fly, and MDMA, the PT-141 would leave him drained, wrung dry, with only surreal snapshots of visceral memories. It would begin with an itchy, tingling piss tube, like being nettled from the _inside_, or being swabbed for STDs, over and over and over. Then there would be the uncontrollable shivering, so intense that his teeth would rattle in his head. His cock would harden and stay that way, for no reason at all. And then there would be a period of blissful, loose euphoria… too brief, achingly short. It would all give way to mania.

And after that, he would wish he was dead. No matter how many orgasms they forced out of him… the torment would not stop. Not for hours and hours.

He looked up when Wesker dumped the contents of the box into the dingy sink. Wesker paused then, swaying, unsteady, and he braced himself on the edge of the counter.

"You ready?" Chris asked, raking his hands through his hair.

Wesker nodded weakly, refusing to meet his gaze. He looked ill, exhausted. And all before any of the festivities had commenced.

"Get in the tub," Chris said, standing, aware again, _always_, of their nakedness. Carla kept them that way - nude, humiliated, subhuman.

_Animal_.

His prick hung flaccid and hot between his thighs. He hated it now, perpetually exposed and vulnerable. The source of his unending agony.

He still tried, sometimes, to remember what it had felt like before all of this. Before she'd stripped him of everything that made him _him. _Before he'd been reduced down to nothing but a body, one he barely recognized now; more often than not, he was just an _organ_. His wretched flesh still _worked_ though. Muscles and joints moved. Skin blistered and bled. He ate, slept, pissed, fucked, all the things that felt familiar and empty and _wrong._

His body was a shell. A machine he didn't control. And he fucking hated it.

He set his jaw. He went to the sink and rifled through the parts of the enema kit. He tore open the sterile bag of coiled tubing, checked to see if the clamp worked, and set it on the chipped countertop. He inspected the two nozzles, choosing the smaller, slimmer one. Working carefully, he screwed it into the end of the tube.

"You got the Vaseline over there?" he asked, flicking on the faucet. He held his hand in the flow of the water, feeling and adjusting the temperature. Too cold and the enema wouldn't do its job; too hot and he wouldn't be able to hold it.

"On the floor." A nearly-whispered reply.

Chris held the hot water bag under the stream, watching the thick red rubber fill up. It was growing very heavy in his hand… It held _a lot_ of water. His stomach twisted at the imagining of it running through his own colon; the soreness, the contractions, the -

"I'm aroused," Wesker admitted suddenly. The words pulled Chris away from his thoughts, and made his breath catch. He held it, staring at Wesker's muscled shoulders, at the slope of his back, at the dimples like thumbprints just above his ass. Wesker glanced at him from where he knelt in the bathtub, his red eyes full of something that could have been shame.

"It's only the drug," he snapped.

"I know. Chest down," Chris said, clearing his throat.

Wesker complied without a word - another sign of the drug taking hold in his system. He positioned himself face down on the bottom of the claw-foot tub, balancing his weight on his knees and forearms. He shifted, pulling his arms and legs in tighter, arching his back.

_Presenting._

* * *

"_God, I want you," Chris growled. He thrust again, grinding his hips, his elbow threateningly close to the man's face as he held him against the brick wall by his throat. Their mouths met - wet and hard, all teeth and tongue. Chris worked his hand into the man's jeans, both of them moaning when he found the pulsing cock, and fisted it possessively._

"_Vezměte si, co je vaše," he hissed into Chris's vicious mouth._

"_Já budu," Chris breathed, biting the man's swollen lips._

_The stranger pulled back, cracking a lopsided grin at Chris's decent Czech._

_The alley smelled acrid, tangy, the air thick with the rot of a nearby restaurant dumpster. It was dark, a flickering street light casting dull shadows across the pavement as the throb of industrial house music reverberated in his chest, driving him further, driving him faster..._

_The man under him was a hair shorter, just as heavy, just as desperate; he was perfect. Chris had needed this tonight. Someone he could fuck - really _fuck - _without worrying, thinking, feeling. He could pound him against the wall in the shadow of the club and he wouldn't think twice about it. He needed someone who wasn't fragile, who wouldn't hurt, who wasn't gonna tell him no._

_Because the only words Chris wanted to hear that night were _yes _and _harder.

_They'd walked around each other, their eyes meeting dangerously in the flashing lights. They didn't speak, didn't make small talk. But everything was loud and hot and obvious enough to render words useless...and when Chris had grabbed him, pulled him close, close enough to taste the alkaline sting of GHB on his tongue, they understood each other._

_That was all that mattered._

"_Turn around," Chris whispered, hoarse and guttural, as he undid his own fly._

* * *

Chris ignored the tightness in his groin, focusing instead on lubricating the nozzle. He used shaking fingers to smear it thick with the grease, trying desperately not to look at Wesker, who waited for him patiently, pliantly, the drug coursing through his veins.

"You ready?" Chris asked. He swallowed, a heavy, almost painful gulp. He anchored his gaze on one of the ridges of Wesker's spine.

Wesker nodded against the tub's floor.

_Thank god he couldn't see his fucking face. _It was humiliating enough to have such a visceral reaction to this alone...the bend of Wesker's body, the strain of his muscles as he held himself upright, knowing that his cock was already hard…

_Beautiful, _he thought, for a second, for half a second, for the slightest edge of an instant until he wrestled the words and the feelings away and stamped them out like the glowing butt of a cigarette.

"Open yourself," Chris rasped.

_This shit never got easier._

Wesker hesitated, his knuckles white and sharp as he gripped the edges of the tub.

"Do it," Chris demanded. "We don't have time."

Slowly, Wesker brought his hands to the backs of his own thighs, and spread the cheeks of his ass. In the poor light, Chris could barely make out the tight, shy hole Wesker had been defending.

Setting his jaw tight, Chris eased the very tip of the slick nozzle into his reluctant body.

Wesker's left leg twitched at the sudden sensation. He grunted.

_Christ, it wasn't even all the way in yet._

"Hold still," Chris ordered. He heard Wesker exhale as he worked the nozzle in, centimeter by agonizing centimeter. His straining muscles softened, opening with each passing second, until the base of the nozzle met his flesh.

Chris slowly raised the bag of tepid water, holding it steady above him. The world seemed too quiet, horrendously quiet. His pulse throbbed in his temples. "I'm gonna… I'll unclip it when you're ready."

Wesker took a steadying breath. His shoulder blades pulled together like a pair of stunted wings, rolling beneath his unblemished skin. He nodded once, surrendering.

Chris carefully loosened the flow control, watching as the gauge began to spin. Water rushed down the tube, setting the little orange wheel in motion. Chris swallowed. Somewhere above them, a cellist practiced - low, mournful notes echoed through the walls. Wesker inhaled sharply, jerking at the sudden sensation of the water.

"Too hot?" Chris asked quickly, hating the concern in his voice. He realized his thumb stopped the clip, halting the process. _A reflex, nothing more._

"No," Wesker said quietly, pressing his face to the side of the cold tub. "Go on."

He was so _unlike _himself, laying this way, soft and meek. He shivered as Chris released the clasp again, and Chris couldn't help but stare, watching every trembling muscle, straining to hear each muffled whimper as the bag slowly emptied.

It was disgusting.

It was captivating.

It was too many things, a thousand of them, conflicting, confusing…painfully _erotic_.

"Are you enjoying this… _Captain Redfield_?" Wesker asked, his voice low. Even now, with the fucker's face pressed against the floor of the tub, and his ass in the air, Chris heard the ghost of a smirk in his comment.

_Yes._

A snide retort died in Chris's mouth when Wesker suddenly arched, groaning long and deep through gnashed teeth, his lovely misery tangling with the haunting notes of the cello. His belly was filling, cramping, expanding. The feeling would ebb and flow, carnal half-pain, half-pleasure that would eventually give way to humiliating, blissful relief. All the while, Wesker's erection would bob, angry and red, beneath his distended abdomen.

Chris stood watching, his arm aching from holding the bag high, feeling it slowly drain as Wesker writhed, whining wordlessly… and he was envious.

* * *

Chris leaned heavily on the plaster wall that separated the makeshift bathroom from the rest of the cell. It had been an agonizing wait - he'd learned, by now, to ignore the sounds of Wesker's ordeal, to let it get lost in the jet of water from the shower. Wesker would let Chris know when he was _ready. _But time was running out, and Carla would expect them both to be immaculate. Chris raised his hand and knocked softly on the wall before he glanced around the corner.

Wesker stood beneath the stream of water from the showerhead. His forehead was pressed to the tile. He was limp and shaking, his shoulders heaving as he wrestled with something in his trembling hands.

He looked pathetic.

"Done?" Chris asked. The word was heavy and awkward in his throat. _What the fuck was he supposed to say to someone after that?_

Wesker's only answer was a sound of annoyance low in his throat. He was fumbling with the razor's packaging, struggling to tear it open.

Chris sighed. He stepped over the edge of the tub, into the spray of the shower. "Just one?" he asked, reaching for the package.

"Two blades," Wesker answered, his voice a strange, weary snarl. He glanced at Chris long enough to hand over the razor - his hair, the palest gold, was matted to his head with sweat and water, so long that it nearly covered his eyes.

Chris tore into the plastic, looking away, eyes landing on the dirty, mildew-stained curtain. If he moved just a few inches to the left, they would be touching. He was always _right there_. Ever since Chris had woken up with Carla standing over him, he'd been chained to Wesker's side - literally, at times.

Wesker slept when Chris slept. Wesker ate when Chris ate. Wesker showered when Chris showered. They were always moving together, moving around each other. Breathing the same stale air, taking up the same limited, awful space.

_Dynamic fucking duo._

Wesker cleared his throat, motioning that he was ready. He kept his body angled stubbornly towards the wall, his unyielding erection hidden from view.

_Like either of them had anything left to hide anymore._

Chris stepped closer, clearing the inches between them. He blinked as water dripped down his brow, into his eyes.

It was all horribly mechanical - movement without thought or feeling. With one hand, he pulled Wesker's skin taut. With the other, he ran the razor in quick, even strokes through the soft pale hair of his lower back. Neither of them spoke. Sometimes, Chris wondered if they even _breathed_ until the preparation ended. But the muscles in Wesker's torso rose and fell - steadily at first, becoming more erratic as he worked. Chris could feel the almost imperceptible tremble beneath his skin as the drug's effect grew stronger and stronger.

Soon, he would barely be able to stand on his own.

Reaching up, Chris carefully angled the calcified showerhead so that the last of the hot water spilled over Wesker.

* * *

Wesker stared at the golden paint coating his fingertips.

Chris watched as he ran his index finger along his forearm, examining the glittering streak closely. It shimmered even in the low light of their little cell, and he twisted the limb back and forth, eyes narrowed quizzically.

_Useless. _Chris grabbed for the jar, dipping his fingers into the cold, thick paint. _Fucking useless..._

He reached for Wesker's wrist, wondering how he'd keep him still long enough to get an even coat on him. But Wesker looked up from his arm, and stepped back, shaking his head.

"We gotta move faster," Chris growled, glancing towards the cell door. Carla would expect them to be fully prepared when she returned - clean, sparkling with paint, masked and kneeling and waiting obediently. Any misstep, no matter how small, would cost them dearly.

But he doubted that Wesker - wavering where he stood, drawing paint over the crease of his elbow - was worried about that.

"Finish your arm." Chris could feel the familiar, unwelcome pressure building behind his temples. It was always the same, no matter what the night's _activity _was. His pulse throbbed there, hot and steady.

_Focus. _He clenched his jaw tighter, stepping forward, smudging the gold paint along Wesker's collarbone. _Fucking focus._

He worked silently. He rubbed the paint up Wesker's throat, down his sternum, along the slope of his shoulders. Wesker watched his movements closely, tracing the same fingertip up and down the length of his forearm, across a dry streak of paint.

"You aren't gold," Wesker said, eyes locked on Chris's chest.

"No," he muttered, trying not to count the seconds they were wasting. "Turn around."

He did, stumbling a little. Chris grabbed his upper arm, steadying him, leaving shining fingerprints on his bicep.

_This was gonna be a shitshow._

Chris dipped back into the jar, spreading paint along Wesker's shoulder blades and down the ridges of his spine. As he did, Wesker shivered, sudden and violent. He crouched and ran the paint over the backs of Wesker's legs - thickly muscled runner's thighs and slender, sharp calfs. Chris's hands slid effortlessly over the clean-shaven skin, rounding to the front of each leg, stopping just below the apex where Wesker's impatient cock stood at full attention. Chris's rough, even strokes painted all the way down to graceful ankles, and high arches of narrow pale feet. Finally, more quickly than the rest, he spread the iridescent gold over the curve of each soft cheek, delving in between with a few fingertips to run the color over every inch of his buttocks. He felt Wesker flinch as his pinky brushed against the hole.

Chris knew, with an awful certainty, that it would be the focus of the evening's cruel performance.

"That's cold," Wesker said, his words beginning to slur. "It's freezing."

"Yeah." Chris stood again, worked his way across the broad expanse of Wesker's back, filling in errant streaks of unpainted flesh. "Just… I don't know. Think about something else."

Part of him - a very small, strange part - almost felt a pang of sympathy for the trembling mess of a man in front of him.

Part of him, as his palms slid down the long, hard lines of Wesker's torso, felt something else.

"Lift your arms," he ordered, and Wesker sluggishly obeyed. It was so strange, commanding _him_, and then seeing the result. Chris frowned at the back of Wesker's head, at the clean edge where the paint met the nearly-white line of his hair. "You think you're gonna last long enough to get my back?"

The faucet dripped. A deep, shuddering breath surged through Wesker, and Chris felt it in his fingertips, snaking around his wrists, winding up his arms.

"Hurry." Wesker's teeth were tightly clenched.

Chris was nearly finished. Wesker's gilded skin caught the dim light of the cell, casting it off like a halo of sun. Chris's gaze lingered on him - on the shadowed contours of his muscles, the elegant web of veins and tendons and the latticework of bones.

"Done," Chris said gruffly, stepping away.

_Don't look, _he told himself. _Stop looking._

But it was no use. Wesker slipped the ornate, mysterious cat mask on. The way it blended with the luster of the paint...the sharp, statuesque lines of his figure...the way light and shadow played across the planes of his graceful body…

He was splendid and enlightened.

He was _celestial_.

"Do I look like God now?" Wesker asked softly, distantly - his thoughts addled, his breathing labored, under the divine effects of the drug. "Would you worship me like this, Chris?"

_Yes. Please. Yes._

But Chris said nothing. He only smoothed what was left of the golden paint over his own mortal flesh, hiding his shameful erection against his thigh.


End file.
